


That's Life

by kalijean



Series: Arch to the Sky [77]
Category: due South
Genre: Arch to the Sky, Chicago (1998), F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-20
Updated: 2011-10-20
Packaged: 2017-10-24 19:39:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalijean/pseuds/kalijean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>September 1998: The story of Francesca's 'immaculate' conception and several other things she never expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's Life

**September, 1998**

Frannie traced her profile in the mirror and waited to feel something.

Fancy math had gone out the window a month or so ago, but at least she could've had hope. Turnbull had been so _sweet_ before. In a few sentences she knew that God had been trying to tell her the solution was in front of her the whole time, she just couldn't see it. She knew once she had her foot back in that door he'd take everything that came with her with open arms. It was like something out of the movies; _good guy_ rolled off Turnbull in waves, or so she thought. She could've gotten that proposal. Been married in time.

If the Mountie hadn't been _gay_ for her _brother_.

She dropped her nightshirt and wiped her face when she heard Maria in the hallway.

Nothing left to try now. Too late. She might as well not be alone anymore.

"Maria?"

 

 

 **Late April, 1998**

So the coffee had become a regular thing.

Frannie didn't even really know why. Maybe once a week, sometimes they'd skip a week, but one of 'em would pay for the other's coffee and they'd just sit and talk about whatever. It wasn't as good as the breaks she used to get with Elaine before she went off to be a cop, but it wasn't bad.

Dewey turned out not to be such bad company. They didn't talk about the tie, hadn't since Frannie saw it. Dewey didn't seem to want to get anywhere near the subject of Gardino, and that was all right, 'cause Frannie knew Gardino and didn't like to think about all the hurt of what happened there. Or the fact that whenever she did she thought about the part of her that was glad it hadn't been Ray.

They also firmly avoided discussion of Benton Fraser. Maybe Dewey was smarter than he looked.

So sometimes Dewey put up with her gossiping. Sometimes he kicked in on it, too. She put up with his crappy jokes and the times he would try and sing country music at her to convince her it was worth giving another shot.

And for what it was, it worked. Until it didn't anymore.

"But that doesn't make _sense_. So the writer doesn't want 'em to grow up to be cowboys. Isn't that false advertising or something? That's, what? Half of what country music is all about? Being a cowboy?"

"No, no, no." Dewey was kinda cute when his mind was actually working. Pity it didn't seem to happen all that often. "It's about so much _more_ than that. Besides, that's just a song. Doesn't mean anything."

She gestured with her coffee, sloshing it a little. "But you just said country music was about something, Tom. Try makin' sense here, pal, then maybe I'll get it."

"Says the girl who thought the other half was about _donkeys_. Maybe you'd get what I was talking about if you hadn't made Turnbull cry when you shoulda been listening to the genius that is Tracy Jenkins."

"Hey, he didn't cry that long. He was fine a few minutes after. And it's not _my_ fault he got the wrong idea."

"Maybe not, but country music is serious stuff. You don't talk country with a guy over a good meal without _meaning_ it."

Frannie glanced down at the table; her muffin, Dewey's donut.

When she looked back up he gave a little shrug and a wink.

 

 

Just like that, something was different. Frannie thought for sure it was only in her head. It wasn't the first time a guy from work flirted with her; God, even Mort did it occasionally, but it was in that wholesome 50's sitcom way that felt more like a pat on the head than anything else. _You look lovely today, Miss Vecchio. If I was but forty years younger..._

She was probably going a little crazy on the heels of Fraser. It wasn't like she hadn't screwed up that way before; taken something tiny as some kind of hidden message and kept on trying, hoping she'd finally figure out the combination. Not that she was doing any kinda hoping with _Dewey_ of all people. God, no. That was laughable. Ride off into the sunset with _that_ one and the most exotic thing she'd see would be the other side of the couch cushion when he lost the remote.

Frannie guessed she was just still detangling herself from picking up the wrong signals from men.

They skipped breaks for a couple of weeks after that. She caught his eye once across the precinct, and was shocked to realize he was looking at her with something like _hurt_ ; just a flash of it, nothing dramatic or weepy, just kinda there. Maybe she got it wrong. Maybe he just wanted somebody to sit across from, just like she did.

It made her feel guilty.

She'd just have to watch him.

The next day she got Dewey by the tie and bought him coffee again.

 

 

Something was still different. She just couldn't place what it was.

"You know you can call me Tom, right?"

She swallowed around a half-chewed bite of muffin. It went down dry. "--Huh?"

"You did it before." Dewey shrugged, sitting back. "I wouldn't call you Vecchio."

"That's 'cause you could never make yourself call my brother Ray."

"You got a point. But still. Feels a little impersonal, don't you think?"

"What if I like calling you Dewey?" She pointed at him from over the table, one hot pink fingernail wagging. "What, you think I need an invitation? Maybe I just like your last name, pal, you ever think of that?"

A pair of brown eyes found hers from across the table. Wide and imploring, a heartbreaker look that she'd _never_ suspected could lurk in _this_ guy.

They held each other's gaze for a few beats, and Frannie wanted to slap herself for being a sucker for that look.

"God, fine! Stop it. You win, Mister Sensitive. Tom. Happy now?"

"Yep." _Tom_ leaned back and smiled at her. He hadn't winked since the last time cost him their breaks, but he looked a lot like he wanted to. He toasted at her with his coffee before taking a long, almost smug, sip.

Frannie snorted and tossed a chunk of muffin at him.

He ended up wearing some of that coffee the rest of the day.

 

 

 **May, 1998**

It was a comedy club.

Well, Frannie _knew_ that, but there was a weird kind of novelty to walking around one when it was practically empty. Tom wanted her to come see a show, and hey, who was she to turn down a free night out?

She could use a laugh. He'd shown her around backstage. It had a secret feeling about it, even though it seemed silly. The kinda place she would've loved to just _play_ in if she were a couple of decades and a bit younger. It was weird to stand up on a stage; it reminded her of girlhood fantasies about standing up in front of a crowd and belting out something out of her vocal range. Impressing everybody. Earning respect.

Tom sat in the non-crowd, legs crossed at the ankles, feet on the table. Smiling up at her. Frannie tapped a mic that wasn't on.

"Go on!" Tom called before whistling enthusiasm for a set she wasn't doing, or maybe guessing her old fantasy and trying to get her to live it.

She stuck out her tongue and tried to think of the silliest thing she could. She landed on something Kowalski once cracked, and it probably made her a hypocrite that she'd whacked him in the arm for it. "Okay-- Uh. A pirate walks into a bar with a ship's wheel stuck to the front of his pants. The bartender says, 'What's that for?' The pirate says, 'I dunno, but it's drivin' me nuts!'"

There was a little glow of pride for getting Tom laughing, but even so, she dropped her head from behind the mic and turned red.

"All right, I'm stealing that," he called up, and she couldn't help beaming. He gestured at her, beckoning. "So come on, Frannie. Sing me something."

Shit. She turned redder and bit her bottom lip. Yeah, okay, so sometimes she liked to sing when she was alone, and maybe once or twice Tom had caught her at it, but... Well. Why not? It wasn't like they hadn't learned to look completely stupid in front of each other over the course of coffee breaks.

Frannie pulled the mic close, even though it wasn't on. Took a breath; it came out at a sigh, an abandoned attempt.

Tom was still looking at her.

"... _Th-- That's life, that's what all the people say... you're riding high in April, shot down in May... But I know I'm gonna change that tune, when I'm back on top in June--_ " Her voice cracked there on a falter in confidence, and she laughed, shoving the mic away. Sting of embarrassment turning her face hot.

There was clapping, the only two hands in the crowd, and at first Frannie thought it might be sarcastic because she _knew_ her voice wasn't anything special, and God, anyone would think he'd know better and she was moving to walk off stage when the sound stopped.

Tom was walking up on stage.

"Hey--" It was soft, and he took her by the shoulders; she could barely open her eyes from the embarrassment. Part of her wanted to swat him away and nearly did, but when she could make herself look at him, there wasn't anything nasty in the expression.

Just soft.

When he kissed her he almost missed.

 

 

Just like that.

They lived two different lives. At work, nothing changed. She didn't spend any time looking his way that she wouldn't have spent before, and he no doubt didn't go looking for her, either. Her off hours became a private little adventure backstage at an empty comedy club. It was always there, or in Tom's car. She didn't want seen in her own, and there wasn't a chance in Hell she'd bring him over for dinner with the family.

And she knew he wouldn't want her to. It wasn't about that.

It was about shedding whatever it was that drew her desperately to the stability Benton Fraser coulda given her if only she'd landed him while keeping tight hold of what it was that made her dream she _could_.

Sometimes they played hide and seek. For a little club in a strip mall, the back area was surprisingly huge and full of crap to hide in. It wasn't a structured game. Just a chase. It always ended the same, though. He would flush her out of hiding, behind a rack of tablecloths or from behind the electrical whatsits or whatever cranny she found and she'd shriek as she ran away. If she couldn't turn it around to get him running. Sometimes he'd catch her before she made it, but if she got there she'd disappear into the back curtain of the stage.

Tom would find her somewhere in the billowing black. Frannie would fling arms around his neck, wrap legs around his waist, and kiss him. They'd try not to get so tangled in the curtain that they fell over.

Didn't always work. One time she whacked her forehead off some kind of lighting fixture and he actually sat with her on stage and tried to help her cover the red mark with her makeup. Once, they _did_ tangle the curtain and brought it down; it was a Friday night and they'd had to scramble to fix it before opening.

Once, Huey dropped by unexpectedly to grab something he'd forgotten. Frannie actually ran off and hid in the bathroom for that one.

Nobody said anything about love. Nobody thought anything about love, except maybe when she thought about not thinking anything about love.

The day she'd knocked down the tablecloth rack and shoved Tom down on the mess she'd made, Frannie thought Fraser woulda died of scandal to think about the hygiene of it. Hell, she imagined him walking in on it. Maybe it'd take his mind off Kowalski for two seconds to figure out he missed what was right in front of him.

She went for Tom's belt buckle. He went for her shirt.

There was a lot somebody could find out about a man without meaning to: Dewey was an idiot sometimes. Sexist in some ways, a little stupid, couldn't carry a tune in a bucket anymore than Frannie could, and was hiding a whole lot of insecurity and a bizarre amount of quiet _sweet_ behind the cocky. He took his coffee obscenely sweet and sometimes when he thought nobody was looking he would daydream. He usually tasted like cinnamon gum.

Tom liked his hair pulled when he was being kissed into a pile of table linens. Liked to yank her bra down on just one side. Liked to shove her skirt up around her hips, liked to hold onto her waist, liked long fingernails and liked to shout when nobody was around.

None of that was shocking.

But he liked to look her in the eye. Liked to pet down her midriff. Liked to stroke her bottom lip with his thumb, and when it was over, he wanted to hold her against his chest.

They left the club later with a couple of arms full of tablecloths and Frannie stood around the laundrymat while they washed, suddenly not sure where to look.

 

 

The second time, the holding didn't scare her anymore. Something about him brought out the kid in her.

His apartment wasn't bad. A little bit bachelor pad for somebody who was thirty-five, but if he wanted to live like that, what did she care?

There were empty Thai food boxes on the nightstand and an old black-and-white on TV. Her shirt covered the lampshade, casting the room pink. Frannie bounced on Tom's bed, wearing nothing but one of his button-up shirts. Laughing. Trying to bounce the man off his own bed just to see if she could do it.

It wasn't love, but it didn't need to be. Not to her. She really _needed_ to laugh, and that was all this needed to be.

Tom in his goofy boxers looked up at her from his place with hands behind his head, stretched out, utterly un-bounced; he smiled in a way she'd never imagined he could. Open. Frannie thought he probably needed to laugh like this, too. Laugh and hold. She spun around like a child, bouncing Tom more in place, and on her last bounce she sat astride his hips and kissed him.

Tasted like red bean ice cream this time.

Later, when he held her hips and her fingernails dug furrows into his chest, she would laugh again as she watched him come.

 

 

 **June, 1998**

It was way too easy to pull off, Frannie thought, smirking at Tom as he was rapidly coming to terms with the reality of his situation.

There was a gleeful sense of triumph to leaving him cuffed to his steering wheel. He'd never felt her stealing them - she had small hands, deft, skilled - and it made her wonder just what kind of detective he had to be not to see it coming. Especially after the way he'd behaved.

 _"You don't like working with woman cops."_

 _"I didn't say_ that _. I said it's got its problems."_

 _"Hey, pal, I bet I kicked your behind at the aptitude test."_

 _"Maybe, but that doesn't mean much when it comes to, you know. Actually getting_ out _there. We've gotta watch out for you. We can't help it, it's hard-wired. I mean, you_ are _the fairer sex."_

 _"You'd better explain that really quick and make it good, mister."_

That smirk of hers only grew, and she dangled the key at him. Oh, it wouldn't last; he'd have a spare somewhere, or he would call Huey or Welsh or Ray and get somebody to unlock him. That's the one she was hoping for. They'd mock him forever and Tom would have exactly _no_ explanation for who did it or why.

"Frannie, _c'mon_ \--"

He swiped with his free hand for the key, and Frannie snapped her hand around it before she swung the passenger door wide, ducking out of the car. "Maybe next time you'll remember to show a girl a little respect." She dangled the key in front of the open window, jerking back as he swiped for it again. Strutting inside, she cursed the man the whole way. " _Honestly_ , you're like a brain-damaged twelve-year-old sometimes. And some flowers wouldn't kill you, either..."

 

 

Tom had given her flowers. Had 'em delivered to the precinct, and when she glanced over while holding the blank card, he rolled his eyes at her and smiled.

Coworkers asked about them the rest of the day. Frannie loved that kind of attention and loved the mystery in refusing to tell them who they were from.

She was going to thank him, but he disappeared about lunchtime. Didn't even check back in come evening to deal with any paperwork. Just like a man to leave her without a ride home. She was going to kill him.

When Ray offered a ride, she took it, and climbed into the newest Riv at the end of shift just to listen to him bitch about traffic all the way home. Maybe it meant his mood was picking up lately, Frannie wasn't sure. It was still annoying.

"Come on, move it! You people ever heard of the gas pedal?! There's a gap you could drive an aircraft carrier through, what the Hell are you waiting for?"

Frannie was rummaging absently through her purse. "Keep yelling, Ray, I don't think they heard you in Tokyo-- dammit, where is that thing? Come on!"

"Where's what?"

She sifted through her checkbook, her appointment book, a few napkins, a blister pack of tylenol... "My breathmints."

"Oh, yeah, Frannie. You get to gripe about your coffee breath but I can't complain about a five _thousand_ year old man camping out in the intersection. Get a move on, Methuselah Two! What's with you, anyway? You got a car, don't you?"

She frowned and glanced over at him, finally pulling a stick of gum from her purse and popping it in her mouth. "Took the bus this morning."

"You. You took the bus? Geez, Frannie, if you're gonna lie to me at least make it convincing. You spilled nail polish in the seat and you gotta wait for it to dry. You got a flat and couldn't figure out your tire iron from a hole in the ground. Something."

"You know, Ray, I'm really sick of the sexist pig schtick. All the running around I do for you people, I should get some respect around here. I get enough of this crap already, I don't need it from my brother."

Ray opened his mouth to reply, but when he looked over at her, he shut it and shrugged. "Sorry."

Frannie snapped a squinting look back to her brother, frowning.

Nothing worked like it used to.

She shut her purse and waited for Ray to go back to yelling in traffic.

 

 

Angry sex turned out to be just as good as laughing sex.

Frannie didn't know why Tom stood her up for a ride, or why he made himself scarce for a couple of days afterward. All she knew was that when she showed up pounding on his apartment door and demanded to know what the Hell was going on, it seemed like the only way to shut up the resulting stuttering was to kiss the damn fool.

It turned out that if he was pushed to it, Tom could actually put some _power_ behind how he handled her, and not just for chasing her down for a _tickle_. She shoved him to the wall, kissing hard, and he pressed back; something in her could _feel_ what he was doing and answer it without even thinking.

Frannie didn't go back to that wall like he wanted. She might've been the one to take that kiss, but she wasn't going to be taken back that easily. She darted out from around him at an agile spin that shocked even her. It was a chase. Like all the others, but nobody was laughing. Closing fingers in his shirt, she dragged him toward the bedroom with teeth clenched, strutting perfectly on heels.

"Frannie--"

"Ssh."

She shoved him into his own bedroom, slammed the door and kicked off her heels.

When it was it tipped from her biting kisses and hauling the man around his own bedroom to her on her back and his hands cradling her hips as she looked down at him, Frannie didn't know. The anger melted away somewhere in the middle.

Or maybe it didn't. She damn near took out handfuls of his hair, bucking against his mouth and the hot streak of adrenaline leftover, and this time it was Frannie that shouted when she got off.

 

 

Frannie stared at the little plus sign and waited to feel something.

It wasn't real, didn't feel real, because it _couldn't_ be. Her hands shook. She couldn't feel herself breathe.

When she glanced at the mirror, she knew she must be feeling something; where else would tears come from?

She snapped the test in half and threw it in the kitchen trash, covering it with banana peels and paper towels.

 

 

 **September, 1998**

"-- _what_?!"

"You heard me, Marie, don't make me say it again."

"But how-- who--?"

"I missed a pill or two. Does it matter? It's too late to make this kosher, Maria. What the Hell am I gonna do? I can't tell Ma. And God, Ray--" Neither of them wanted to talk about Ray.

"--you can't _hide_ it! You're gonna have to say something, Frannie. What are we gonna tell her, it was the immaculate conception?"

"Oh, yeah. It was real _immaculate_ \--"

Breath caught by the bedroom door.

Frannie's heart hit the floor when she looked at the open door to her mother looking back from the hallway, hand pressed to her chest.


End file.
